


Nothing to Hide

by Elahyra



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:51:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7740571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elahyra/pseuds/Elahyra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wedding was done. The violin sang. All that's left to do was to get his coat and go.</p><p>But what happened when someone saw him go and followed him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! Obviously, this is my first fic I've ever managed to write. So, yes, a newbie. I have this tendency to write a paragraph or two but always end up deleting it because I can't seem to find a good way of continuing it. Then I finished writing this chapter. I was certain that I wouldn't be posting this as I was just writing this without an idea on how this story will go and end but I thought, "I want to know their thoughts about this." And then I also have this account, so why not?
> 
> All credits are to the amazing creators of BBC Sherlock. They're amazing.
> 
> Please be advised that I do not have a beta and this is not brit-picked. I am also not a native speaker of the language. And I have no idea what are the tags I am supposed to use, I think it's quite obvious. Also, please inform me if you find something that needs correction. It would really be nice to.
> 
> EDIT: Before, this fic was entitled "He Tried, Really" but now I have decided to accept DaringD's suggestion. Now it's "Nothing to Hide" Yay!
> 
> Enjoy reading!

The lights were dancing to the beat of the music. The happiness for the newly wed was radiating throughout the room. Beverages and snacks were being served around as the guests were greeting each other, making up for the conversations missed for a long time.

The dance of the Watsons were done with Sherlock giving his vow for the two- three people he cared the most as the last part. He went down the stage and rushed to the side of the couple and explained himself. Of course three people, it was supposed to be obvious for the doctor and the nurse, but it was a day off for the two. The programme was done. It meant that he wasn't need, probably wanted, anymore. He quietly made his way towards the door, trying to make himself as small as possible. He took his Belstaff and started walking outside when he heard the click of the door opening. He knew the man based on his walking pattern. It wasn't that difficult to see the similarity of the footsteps of his friend climbing those seventeen steps of their flat- his flat from what he just heard right now. 

* * *

  
  
He wasn't expecting he would slip while doing his speech. "But as I'm apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of your companion," he said. He went still eyes wide, wanting to slap himself. He wasn't thinking, what an idiot to let his sentiment take over him for a second. He could have said those words, anywhere or anytime, but not this time. He knew how this meant a lot John. He didn't want to make this awkward. He had to take those words back. A couple of silent breaths and a few seconds of confused stares from the guests, he finally found the right word. "Actually now, I can." He realised he was telling the truth. This was John's choice, and all he could do was to accept that he wasn't the choice. It would be hard, but this is how it should be. If he wanted to make this work, he should bend down. He did.

He didn't want it to be though, but the sudden realisation that a murderer was inside the venue was probably the thing he really needed that moment, a distraction. His thoughts might be scattered, but at least he had a goal and it was to solve the case. Even for a short moment, he could run away from all this emotional stuff and he could do the thing he was good at.

It wasn't Mycroft. It was John who kept him right. Every time he would forget that people do feel things, John would always be there to remind him. He would always fix the mess Sherlock made and left. He had given him the best assistant Sherlock could have. He would always patch him up, call him idiot and scold him, but he could feel the concern John was emitting through his lightweight touches. John would always end up with a smile on his face whenever he would start to show off. He always made sure that he would eat and sleep if he needed. He was always there from the start, when he had no one to back him up, ending up with traces of gunpowder from shooting the awful cabbie who managed to make Sherlock play the game of the bottles. It had always been John, hadn't it?

He wasn't sure how long this case would last, but suddenly everything fell into place and then his mind was on full speed, making out the connections between the unclosed cases. Because of John Watson. If it wasn't for him, he would still be deducing who was the suspect, not who would be the victim. Then the Major was saved, of course by John, and the culprit was arrested by the detective inspector.

Then everything continued as if nothing happened.

* * *

 

"Already leaving?" John asked, making his way towards him.   
  
Sherlock turned around after a few beats of silence, "I don't see any reason for me to stay." Because really, he wanted to be out of this place. As soon as possible.

"I don't see any reason for you to leave."  
  
"Case. Got it a while ago," he lied and slightly leaning his head and shoulders behind him as if pointing somewhere.  
  
"Right. Of course," he mumbled.

He couldn't hide the disappointment in his voice. He hadn't expected to be rejected with his silent request for him to stay a little longer. This was his best day. They had spent months preparing for this and all that he could really ask for was to celebrate it with the two people he loved. Besides, no one leaves a party early. But of course, it was Sherlock were talking about. He was bound to disappear anytime anywhere he thought appropriate. This should be usual to John.   
  
John stayed silent, giving Sherlock his cue to go. But as much as he wanted to turn around and move, his body beg to differ. His shoes seemed to be quite interesting right now so he looked down. Everything was heightened to his senses.  It felt as if there was this invisible line of electricity between them, ready to spark on any move. He could feel each time John inhaled, each time John would look at him, each time John would open his mouth as if to say something, each time John flexed his fingers. John could feel it too then. The ambience was too awkward.   
  
They just stood there, waiting for something, anything to happen and break the bubble they were in.   
  
"You had a good choice there," John said out of nowhere when he cleared his throat.   
  
Sherlock snapped his head up. John wasn't looking at him. John's gaze was transferring from the dark sky to the ground. Nervous. For what? "What?"   
  
"The Bloody Guardsman, that one."   
  
"Oh. What about it?"   
  
John licked his lips. He tried to make himself calm and failed. "It made me remember the 'chat' we had. In the bench. Where you left me." He wasn't aware of that small genuine smile he gave Sherlock when he remembered Sherlock using that word. The scene went flashing in front of his face like it was just yesterday and chuckled. Those moments, Sherlock trying to chat, was one of the most adorable moments he had with the man.   
  
"Sorry about that," Sherlock replied. It wasn't just for that day, he was sorry for everything he did to John. Normally, he never cared if he would leave John to follow his train of thought and prove something. He always knew that he would come back home, order them takeaway for dinner and make them tea as if nothing happened. But that wasn't the case right, was it?   
  
John's face had a smooth transition from something elated to something Sherlock couldn't understand. He thought it was a mix of something. "I said that Mary changed me," John said. "And for the past two years, there were two people who changed me."   
  
John stopped. A full stop. Sherlock was starting to get frustrated for not being able to grasp things. He hated not knowing things. He knew that John still had something to say, but why did he stop? His eyes squinted in an instant, totally focused on John.   
  
John wasn't baffled with the detective's stare. He was used to it he couldn’t even remember when he started to. He just continued, "It was you, the other one," he finished nonchalantly.  
  
Sherlock scoffed. Of course he did. He gave this doctor the thrill and the constant release of Adrenaline in his body. He was the reason John didn't need to use that stupid metal crane for years. He was the reason why John had a friend like Lestrade and a mother figure like Mrs. Hudson. He was the-   
  
John wasn't implying things that way, was he?   
  
His gaze was suddenly on John, his mind running with deductions. Then it stopped. A full stop. He didn’t know what to make of the things he was currently seeing in this man. He wanted to say that John was faking all of this, but then he knew the capacity of John’s acting skills. He would know when John was lying or acting. He had spent enough time observing him to be able to tell these things.   
  
Though obvious, Sherlock decided to ignore these things. Denied, actually.   
  
“Oh, John, please. Don’t speak as if you harbour some sentiment or affection in that manner for me,” he waved his hand in front of his face as if swatting the thought away.   
  
“I did.”   
  
His mind went offline.   
  
“You… do?” The question was barely a whisper. He didn't know what he was asking. He didn’t know what he was doing. He wasn’t even sure if he was controlling his own body anymore. It felt as if something hidden deep inside him was suddenly free to perform, taking the control of this body. Totally up and running.

With a small nod from John, Sherlock felt something rushed inside him. He knew that this moment, people would demand for words, for something like Yes or I do. Yet John wasn’t those people. This John was able to convey his feeling even with the smallest gesture. John would prefer to let his actions speak for him. And with Sherlock's observational skills, it wasn't a problem at all. He knew what John wanted to say to him. He just knew.   
  
It must be Christmas. John was looking at him now with an expression he could not identify.   
  
He was staring back at John, cataloguing every line in that face, every stand of hair flying away. Then he saw the building behind him. Then he remembered why they were here for.

Christmas was cancelled. No, it wasn't Christmas in the first place.  
  
_I did. It was in the past tense_ , Sherlock realised.   
  
He couldn’t help himself to laugh and dropped his head. This was just stupid. To think that hope was starting to form inside him. To think that he had just forgotten the vow he gave the couple of minutes ago. To think he had forgotten the woman inside that building. How come John managed to make him not to think of that at all? He hated how much John's words and actions was a big deal for him. But then, this was John, wasn't it?

He shook his head. He felt like he was now one of those stupid people walking down the street. Utterly stupid. He wasn’t able to identify what his feelings were right now. It’s too much.  
  
Cursing within him in English wasn’t enough.

He wasn't aware how much time passed.  Calming down was as difficult as understanding his emotions. Then when he got himself together and understanding what was to do, he plainly said, "It seems that lost my chance then, didn't I?"

But he didn't had the chance. At least that was what he thought until now. He never thought, even in the slightest, that it was possible for John to feel this way. The fact that he told John he was married to his work and then he told Sherlock that he wasn't asking, and the fact that John had a string of girlfriends along the way also made him resolute with his stand. The chance of the two of them being something more was non-existent. But that wasn't the case.

But why would he try when it wasn't clear to him that he had a chance?

John was speechless. He was just staring at the man in front of him, deciphering what Sherlock's last phrase meant. Sherlock looked up and was trying to smile. He saw some instances were Sherlock's emotions slipped onto his face but still recovered in an instant. Today, though, was a different case. He seemed to be open, vulnerable in John's eyes.   
  
Sherlock tried to hide his emotions, really. But god, his own emotions was overwhelming him. He was so tired of this 'concealing' act he was putting up for who knows how long, he didn't even care to count anymore. He should be happy, he knew that. This was the most important day of his best friend, his only friend. But he was too tired of trying. It would probably be the last day he'd see this man. No, it really was the last day. He didn't care what John would think of him after his. He just couldn't get to care anymore. He did his best in fulfilling his task as the best man. That should be enough. There was nothing to hide anymore.  
  
"Go back. You can't be missing in your own event," he said. He had to get away. He had to face what was the fact now. "Your wife is looking for you," he added, smiling. It wasn't a reminder for John, really. It was to remind himself that John had a wife now.   
  
He didn't wait for John to say or do anything. He turned around and walked away. His hands were clutching his coat tightly, he noticed. He didn't mind though. Right now, his Belstaff seemed to be the most comforting thing in the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess that's it! What do you think? Please let me know, I would really love to.
> 
> Actually, the title is still tentative. I am having a hard time to decide on what title I should settle in, so please bear with me.
> 
> Thank you for reading. You're awesome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter is here! I am really celebrating right now because apparently, I always have a hard time making one. But now it's here! It isn't long, I am really sorry for this. 
> 
> I would like to note that in this fic, the arc of Magnussen didn't happen. So he didn't had a relapse. Neither all those Mary and the past stuff.

"Yes. How many times do I have to tell you that you need to tell me when you have a lead?" Was the first thing John heard when he entered the Scotland Yard. Greg was facing his back towards him, obviously mad at the man in front of him.

"Telling you would slow me down. Besides, it's tedious," the man replied, scoffing.

"How come sending one text would slow you down? You can fire a text in a matter of seconds, for God's sake," he said, as if it was practiced and said for a thousand times. "All I ask is a text, Sherlock. Is that too hard?"

"Remind me again next time," he said, dismissing any reply the detective could have thought of.

The DI nodded and sighed. He knew this would be going nowhere. He was about to go to his office when he saw the figure of the doctor near his door. "Oh. Hey there," he said, recognising his presence. "Sorry, mate. Can't go for a pint. Have to finish the documents." He raised his hand behind him and scratched the nape of his neck. He'd totally forgotten that they planned to go to the pub tonight.

"Don't worry about it. I was just worried what you're up to," John replied, smiling.

"Tomorrow, then? My treat."

"No one refuses an offer like that." The two chuckled. Lestrade raised his hand, fingers together like a salute, waved it goodbye and went on his way to his office.

Sherlock suddenly turned around to face his blogger, focusing for making a poker face. He should have expected it, that John and Gavin--Graham would still be in touch after all those festivities. They would still continue to watch their games in the pub. Maybe even talk about their married life. The doctor and the DI have other things in common besides the cases. They had a reason to still talk.

But not for him. Sherlock was John's best friend. But the things that kept them together were the cases, the chase and the danger. Now, with the wife and a baby in the equation, John couldn't risk himself. He had to be safe for his family. He couldn't do all those night chases and break-ins. He had to work and provide for his family. Even if John would insist on coming, Sherlock wouldn't let him.

"Hello John," he managed, the corners of his lips lifting a little.

John smiled but a little awkward. "Hello Sherlock." Clearly, the talk they had was still bothering him. "How long has it been?"

 _Two months, one week and four days. Do I have to say the hours and minutes as well?_ It never passed through Sherlock’s tongue. But that didn't matter now, not his feelings. Because right now, he had to set something right. Something that was supposed to be done a long time ago.

"I want to apologise for the way I acted last time," he said with his usual sharpness. "It was not right for me to put you in such position in a very special moment of yours. That day should have been a time for you to celebrate and not to be bombarded more with those kind of matters."

Sherlock was waiting for a response. He didn’t get one.

"I do hope that you would find this apology sufficient because I cannot think of anything more that would satisfy you." John laughed. With that smile plastered on Sherlock's face, he knew that he was trying to lighten the mood.

John cleared his throat and straighten his stance. "No. I--I also am to blame."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John didn’t hold the smile that was threatening to appear on his face anymore, he let it flow and laughed right there and then. "Right," he chuckled.

"Dinner?"

How Sherlock missed these little conversations they had. God, he missed that smile. He missed _John._

He knew that John would have to go home and he'd be back again at 221B, alone. But that's not the now. Now, John's here, with him, asking him for dinner (probably Angelo's). Forget the Later, now's what mattered. Let him be happy even for just a moment. If hundreds of dinner at Angelo's were the thing he had to do to have a time with John, he'll eat.

 

* * *

 

John forced him to eat. He did.

The dinner was lovely. The night was lovely, the streets they walked through looked ethereal as if telling him it’s been a while since they did this. Angelo never failed to greet them with utmost enthusiasm. The candle wasn’t placed on the table, didn’t matter. Even the weather was in their side.

John asked him about the case Sherlock just solved. Sherlock narrated as always. He started with the man that was found dead inside a building that was scheduled to be demolished. Of course he didn’t let the chance to pass to insult everybody in the crime scene. “One of the forensic analysts thought he was so clever he immediately declared the place as where the murder happened. He wasn’t even sure of the cause of death,” the man scoffed and continued. “Even without thorough analysing the crime scene, it was obvious it was a body dump. The blood looked a lot but it’s because the murderer immediately drove there to dump the body after he killed him.”

“Probably they didn’t see that one, Sherlock,” John shoved his fork into his mouth.

“Still people can’t see things?”

John just hummed, his mouth full of pasta. “What happened next?”

“I left them to think for themselves what really happened there. Then I apprehended the suspect. He wasn’t hard to find, hiding near his office because it felt like home. The victim was a colleague. They were working on a science experiment when the victim found a solution to the predicament that was stalling them for months. The suspect tried to steal it from the victim. Then they fought for the solution. The suspect blacked out and killed the victim. Panicked, he tossed him in his car and dumped him in the nearest place possible. If he didn’t make a hard break, he would have been a little harder to find. Though the scent and the particles of the solution remaining in the victim’s hand would still link him to his death,” he ended his speech with pasta in his mouth and a pout.

"Ouch. I hope it's really not because of greed," he replied his face a little sad. It didn't last though, the smile returned on his face, his eyes in awe. "Brilliant." His grin broadened. "Amazing, really."

His breath hitched, eyes widened. John called him amazing, brilliant, extraordinary, fantastic and other words of that level, but he never got used to it.

"How about the office? Have they found any evidence?"

"The place was bleached. He knew what to do but he was careless due to the shock he was having. The met shouldn't take long before they find the right part to swab and find evidence."

“Okay. Sure they will,” John smiled.

The rest of the dinner was silent. The walk towards 221B was silent. How come Sherlock let John walk with him? He didn’t know. The next moment he felt he owned himself, he was in front of the door.

“Do you think Mrs. Husdon is still awake?” John asked still looking at the door.

“I believe she isn’t,” he replied.

John opened the door anyway. He still had his key. The thought of giving the key back to Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock never occurred to him. Sherlock quickly followed inside. He knew he’s supposed to be okay with this, but he wasn’t. His mind was okay with it, his heart though, had another answer. For the past two months, he had forgotten all the things that were related to John. Well, at least he tried to. 221B, ironically, was the only place where he can be himself, without the world to see, without John to see. Now that John’s here, he felt exposed.

“I told you she’s already asleep,” he whispered.

John stared at him for a moment, deducing him in his own way. He sighed. “We have to patch that up.”

His eyes widened in surprise. _Since when did you_ _—_

“On our way to Angelo’s. Your face winced when your arm hit the man on the street. You were sweating. The weather today wasn’t that hot, I need to check you didn’t get infected.”

Sherlock was about to deny it when John immediately spoke, “Since it’s you that we’re talking about, I am sure that you wouldn’t even try to clean that up. I would assume it would be for an experiment,” he went upstairs leaving him alone.

John wasn’t there when he entered the sitting room. He heard some rustling inside the bathroom, he was probably getting the med kit. He had nothing to do. John was in his doctor mode. He took off his coat and started rolling his shirt. When he winced at the action he was doing, he grabbed a pair of scissors under a pile of papers. Shirt be damned, he cut of the shirt from the hem up to the shoulders and plumed himself on the couch.

John sat himself carefully beside him and laid out the med kit on the centre table. He looked at the wound and started to clean it. Sherlock would sometimes jerk his arm off while he was cleaning but he never produced any kind of sound. A couple of minutes later he was finished, releasing a heavy breath out.

“Good thing it wasn’t infected and it didn’t need any stitching. Where exactly did you get this?”

“He had a knife.”

“Well, that explains things,” he sighed. The doctor placed the surgical scissors down the tables and stood. “I’m making tea,” he said and went towards the kitchen. The following actions were so normal to him he didn’t notice he was doing it in pure reflex. The kettle was still there, the tea was still stored in the cupboard near the refrigerator, his cup was still in its normal place.

When he came back with a tray filled with two cups and a plate of biscuits, he saw the detective, sleeping peacefully on the couch, leaning his good arm on it.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t alone when he went home in 221B. He was alone when the sun rises hours after. He thought when would be the next time he wouldn’t be alone and John would be with him. He knew the answer.

He’d rather not finish the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's about it. If you have seen anything wrong, please let me know. Constructive criticism is also appreciated.
> 
> I was trying make it a little longer, but something came up and it has been eating me since. I am really sorry. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, you're awesome.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one! I was planning on posting this a couple of weeks ago, but life came up with some amazing way to steal my time. And I wasn't that sure if what I wrote was good for a chapter. Anyway, I got a couple of hours free with me today and I decided to post this now.

The sunlight was forcing its way through the curtains, barely lighting the sitting room, emphasising the dust floating and dancing inside. Papers were everywhere giving a feel of intense messiness but at the same time, it felt as if they were meticulously placed. Somewhere, there was a man splayed underneath the papers, not moving at all.

A knock crashed the deafening silence enveloping the room. The body didn’t even move. “Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson said as she opened the door, a tray in her hand with a cup of tea and a plate filled with biscuits. She walked towards the kitchen and set the tray on the table, not minding the papers on it. The cup she brought yesterday and the day before was still there, cold and untouched. She stared at the pile of papers and waited for a couple of seconds before going to the sitting room and lifted the papers above the detective. “Dear, wake up!” She shouted, hiding the shock in her face and voice. He was sleeping?

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock groaned, opening his eyes for a millisecond before making a lazy turn away from the lady. He reached for a couple of papers and used it as a blanket, hiding his face.

“What time is it?” She asked, crouching and nudging the man on the shoulders.

“Midnight,” he mumbled shooing Mrs. Hudson with his hand.

“Sherlock, it’s already noon!” she stood up and walked to the kitchen her back a little sore. Why did she even crouch? She could have just kicked the man. “Where are your wits?”

The man was silent then suddenly sat up, “What happened?” finally coming to his senses. He looked oblivious.

“You fell asleep. I thought it’s supposed to be obvious to you,” she scold but still emitting sweetness. She took the mugs and started to wash it in the sink. The plates that came with the mugs was in the sink with only crumbs left, making her smile. At least he ate.

She never denied the fondness she was feeling for the man. The moment she met him, somehow she knew that this man was different. Not the “freak” different, but different in a good way. She might not know a thing about her tenant here and there but that was okay for her. The motherly love that she felt for this man was one thing that she loved. And she was more than happy whenever Sherlock would show his affection for her. The man was not a man of sentiment, and whenever he tried to appreciate her, in one way or another, she was happy.

When John came, she felt the change. Taking care of Sherlock was a pain in the arse. She loved doing it, but still a pain in the arse. It was hard for her to win an argument with the detective and she was happy that John was there to limit the man with everything. She didn’t have to worry much if Sherlock ate for the week, or if the flat above was much more of a mess than normal. The smile in her face was always present whenever she can hear two voices talking, arguing above her ceiling. It was so much better than imagining Sherlock talking to a skull, only to be answered by the voice of the detective.

She felt like the walls Sherlock built around him was starting to fall, little by little. All because of John. She always thought of it like John was a soldier protecting a castle, like John was the wall himself.

Now with John nowhere around it, the castle was bare, exposed to any threat.

And what hurt more when a mother see her child hurt?

She wasn’t sure was she supposed to do. But somehow, she had to help this man. This child.

“Why don’t you go to Greg?” she said acting nonchalant. “He might have something for you.”

“I have something right now,” he said as he flopped himself on the sofa.

“Such a liar kid,” she muttered enough for Sherlock to hear. “Go find yourself something to do! You’re doing evil things when you get bored.” She closed the faucet and headed towards the exit. “I’m going out to get some ingredients for my baking later. Burn the flat and there will be none for you, young man,” she huffed making her way down the stairs.

That should do it, she thought. Right now, she knew Sherlock didn’t need some deliberate comfort. He needed the normalcy of things. Normalcy meant John and cases.

When the room upstairs was empty after buying from Tesco, she smiled.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock wasn’t sure how long was he walking since he left. He had a couple of choices where to go. Molly would have something for him. She always had. He could go and piss the life out of Mycroft, maybe even ask for a something to work on. But after that two years roaming the planet, maybe not now. So Lestrade it was then.

Instead of raising his hand to make a cab magically appear, he went for the train station. Just for a change, he thought. He wasn’t running away, not really.

Who was he kidding, he was running.

Riding a taxi was one of the moments he treasured. John, beside him, that was what he treasured. He remembered that time he was searching for a restaurant that could match the clues he got from the crime scene in his phone when he unknowingly looked at John. He was supposed to continue his search but he was just captivated by the scene in front of him. John was looking outside, his body sitting comfortably, his face relaxed a little smile of contentment slipping. Every time the street lights would flicker and hit John’s, face it made it more ethereal than it was. He always knew how John's posture and contentment compliments his features. And that just gave the final proof. John was handsome. John was undeniably handsome.

He had forgotten what he was doing. He probably didn’t notice he was staring at the doctor if John didn’t face him and talked to him. He was caught off guard by that moment, but he loved every second of it. So he wasn’t surprised that every time John would stare out from the window, he would dare a glance and just drink the scene laid in front of him.

Inside the small confines of the taxi, it would always be just John and him. Those silent short rides that occupied a rather large room in his mind palace right now. And he didn’t care.

Trains didn’t make him remember those. Trains were full of people he could deduce to distract himself.

He got out of the station and trotted towards the Scotland Yard, not minding the pairs of eyes staring at him as he helped himself towards the office of the DI. Donovan stepped in front of him but he didn’t stop.

“What do you have for me?” he said right after opening the door.

Greg help up his forefinger in front to silence the man. His shoulder and ears was pinning a phone while his other hand went to continue what he seemed to be writing before. “Yes,” the detective answered. “Hmm… yep. Got it. Thanks.” He ended the call and hid his phone in his pocket.

“Just in time. We got one,” showing Sherlock the little paper with an address written on it. “I don’t know much of the details so don’t expect much.” He got his jacket and went outside the building. Sherlock followed. “You coming?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll follow.” He sighed. Because he hated riding a police car, he still had to ride a cab, hadn’t he?

 

 

* * *

 

  
Behind a big building there was a police tape placed and officers politely shoving the other people who were curious with what’s happening. There was the body sitting on a corner leaning to the wall. Her hands were inside of her pockets and her legs resting in front of her as if she was just asleep. She was wearing a baggy moss green jacket, its hood covering the woman’s brown wavy pixie hair, and a black cotton t-shirt underneath, dark jeans with little rips on the knees and blue shoes. All of her clothes were worn out.

A constable approached Greg and Sherlock. “She was found by another homeless around 1 this afternoon,” he reported. “No one has touched the body, as you ordered, sir.”

“Good,” the DI nodded. “ID?”

“Uhm…” the constable hesitated and looked down the road, “We haven’t found out yet, sir.”

“What? Why?”

“There’s nothing with her that can identify her. We asked a couple of the homeless lounging around here. They said she has been here a couple of days, but no one recognises her.”

“That’s because she dyed her hair,” Sherlock butted in. He rose up from crouching beside the victim. “And quite recently and professionally done, I must say. You should look for a woman with this face, blond hair with this length,” he raised his hand to his abdomen.

The constable looked at Greg, questioning the man’s command. “Just do it,” the DI mumbled.

“Wait,” Greg suddenly blurted out before the constable made his way out. “What’s the C.O.D.?”

“Suspected blunt force trauma to the head, sir.”

Greg nodded and turned to face Sherlock. “So, how is it?”

“She really was hit on her head. But it didn’t kill her.” Sherlock looked at the man, finding him with a confused expression on his face. He rolled his eyes and continued, “The injury she had on her head wasn’t strong enough to make a big impact. A concussion at most. She was strangled. It’s obvious when you observe.”

“So this is a crime of passion.”

“What makes you think of that?”

He shrugged his shoulders and looked at the body. “Well, she was strangled.”

“Doesn’t mean it was a crime of passion. Do you really understand the meaning of ‘get all the clues before concluding’? She was strangled because it’s his M.O.” Greg gave him the look, _him_? “Yes! Him! The strangulation marks near her nape was inclined upwards stating that the murderer was taller than her. There were no scratch marks on her neck suggesting she didn’t fight when she was strangled. Probably done post-mortem but the bruises say otherwise, so the best bet is that she was unconscious. That’s for the trauma to the head. Then why bother strangle her if she was asleep? Again, it’s his M.O. He strangled her, lifting her whole body with his strength. Now a girl is more unlikely to have her killed with that strength. And it may not look like it, but the victim was heavier than she looked.”

Greg was staring at the victim for a couple of moments before coming back to reality. “He’s a contractor,” he said amazement evident in his voice.

Incredible.

Sherlock wondered why he heard it. He wondered when was the last time he heard that word uttered by that person. It was just a couple of days ago to be honest, but he wondered when he would have that fortunate moment to be complimented by that person again.

 _The Work,_ Sherlock thought. _Focus. You're being in an idiot._

“Finally following, are we?” Sherlock crouched again to re-check the body now also cataloguing the surroundings. Or probably to hide his face from the world.

“How could she afford to have her hairstyle change if she’s a homeless?” The voice of the DI was approaching behind him.

“It’s because she wasn’t.”

“What?”

“She was not a homeless. Do I have to repeat myself?” Sherlock heaved an irritated sigh.

“How about her clothes?”

“Definitely not worn out, but made to look like one. But I believe this outfit has been with her for a long time now.”

Greg nodded and stepped back a little bit, giving the space he thought Sherlock wanted. Sherlock continued his investigation, focusing on every little place he could have, sniffing the victim’s hair, and jacket. He took her hands and brought his little magnifying glass, his eyes fixated as if it’s tearing the fingers apart. He gently placed the hands on the woman’s lap and suddenly jumped to stand from his position.

“Sherlock?” Greg asked.

“Nothing more. Both of them were too cautious on whatever they’re doing,” the detective replied hiding his magnifying glass. “Let Molly do her job, she’ll probably see something more.” He turned his upper body to face the DI, “And please, do try to find some pattern when you started interviewing the people related to her. I’ll be back for update.” Then Sherlock helped himself out of the scene.

He wanted to go home, as soon as possible. He would still finish this case and every other cases, always, but now he wanted to be away from the crime scene. Because crime scene reminded him of John. Riding a taxi reminded him of John. But then, home reminded him of John. Where would he really go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's about it. If you have seen anything wrong, please let me know. Constructive criticism is also appreciated.  
> Let me know what you think, that would really be something for me! I'd love to know too!  
> Thank you for reading, you're awesome.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That feeling when you finished a chapter?  
> Here's another one! I am so happy right now, really. Currently celebrating for this reason.  
> And please, a reminder. It's fiction, okay?

Being at St. Barts was something she loved. The silence wafting through the rooms and hallways, the tables full with instruments ready at her disposal. Of course, the bodies hidden in their specific drawers just waiting for release and especially the one in her table. A body would never lie. It would give clues as to what happened in the individual's life, no matter how far it happened before. It would reveal all the secrets one can hide. It would say if it was suffering from a disease. She loved the thrill of discovering the cause of death and time of death, identifying physical marks and bruises, finding little fragments and shards of an object that was deposited on the body.

 

She loved everything that was inside this room, and that meant everything.

 

That meant that the man with dark curls and long dramatic coat was included.

 

It wasn't as if she was expecting something more from the man. She tried helping, she tried to be _him_ , but it didn't work. She already knew her place. Her place was here, to help when such moment arise. And now that it she was needed, she had to give her best.

 

"I understand that you are about to be finished with your examination?" Was the man's opening speech.

 

She tore her gaze up from her computer and looked at the detective. "Yes. Almost. Just waiting for the analysis to be done," she answered pointing to the process the computer was making. The progress bar was at a stall for a couple of seconds before it moved a little.

 

"Good, is the body ready? I want to see it with my own eyes."

 

She didn't answer but just stood up, went to the metal table and pulled the zipper of the body bag until the whole body was exposed to the detective's sight. She reached for the clipboard resting near the computer and gave it to Sherlock. "Here are my findings. Tell me if you find something that is different from yours." She nodded, silently telling him that she was gonna leave him to himself. "Black. Two sugars, isn't it?"

 

Sherlock just hummed, already doing his ritual on the body.

 

Right, she thought. She turned around and went towards the door when she heard a deep voice call her name.

 

"Thank you, Molly," he said with his head looking up at her with a smile on his face. _Was that a genuine smile?_ Her mouth opened but no words came out. She wanted to try again but decided against it, opened the door and continued on her way. If someone thought she was crazy on her way to the break room because of her smile, she didn't care.

 

He was appreciated by Sherlock, genuinely. She knew she was because all along she knew that Sherlock was trying to manipulate her through nice words and she was just that nice to play along with the charade. Or maybe she was just that smitten enough she couldn't deny to the favour that was being asked.

 

But anyway, today was a different situation. The ambiance was light, nothing felt forced, and it was just a different smile. She knew because she was looking at him every time she had the opportunity. That smile was The Smile reserved for John. Almost the same with The Smile.

 

And that was more than enough for her.

 

She could have been a doctor for the living if she wanted to. She could be a great physician in Barts if she wanted to. She could open her own clinic if she wanted to. Postmortem is just beautiful in its own way, she thought.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The woman, Cynthia Foster, turned out to be a private detective. Cynthia was working for a man named "Robin" to do a background check on his rival, probably looking for something he can use to blackmail and leverage. According to Cynthia's journal he found in her office(took him a couple of seconds to open the lock of the door), it seemed that she was into something deep. There were scribbles in her journal, arrows pointing to words, lines that looked like a three year old kid drew. All Sherlock could make out of it was that--"She knew Robin was hiding something from her and that gave her the reason to do a background check to her own client," he muttered to himself then papers were flying everywhere and finally stop with a detective staring at a piece of paper as if he was eating every word printed on it.

 

After a few ticks of silence, a swish of a paper falling to another paper was heard, followed by a huff. The detective rolled his eyes and turned his gaze to the room itself, noting things that were out of place and anything he might use in the future then finally walked towards the door, feeling a little polite to turn off the lights and locking the door behind. With the usual mysterious poker face plastered on his face and his hands inside his pockets, he went towards the end of the case(couldn't resist the drama).

 

The building he stepped in next had a lobby was accommodating and intimidating at the same time. There was a receptionist behind the table located in the middle of the room looking at her desktop computer. She was one of the boring receptionists Sherlock hated, trimmed nails, flawless makeup, the most perfect bun and perfectly ironed clothes. No traces of imperfection. Dull.

 

He went in front of the receptionist with confidence and placed his hand on the table, getting her attention. She looked up, he smiled. "I'm here for Mark Davis," he said.

 

"And may I know who are you, sir?" The receptionist politely asked.

 

Continuing his acting, the smile never faded. He took a small ID case inside his pocket and showed it to her. Her eyes widened but managed to regain her posture within a flash and returned her smile. She looked at her desktop and pushed some buttons on her keyboard before returning her gaze to Sherlock. "Of course, sir. He is currently at his office. 5th floor and turn left, you'll see his name on the door."

 

"Thank you."

 

Mycroft's ID could open doors but that didn't mean a detective inspector's ID couldn't. There were some habits that wouldn't die. And he'd rather not.

 

The conversation he had with Mark Davis was a quite pleasant one, if you ignored how many times he rolled his eyes, scoffed at Mark's answers and but in while Mark was speaking. All in all, he got what he needed and went out of the building.

 

Mark's answers were interesting. He was the rival this Robin was pertaining to. Currently, he was a project manager of a couple of software projects their company was developing. After having an overview of each projects, Sherlock was now focused on a certain project, a software that could fully price a device from the latest version of ransomware that has been roaming the tech world and infecting a lot of users for months. Mark had a breakthrough on developing a new security software that could detect the said ransomware even before it enters the system. Based on his intel they were the very first who managed to enter the beta phase of development with so far successful results. If this software was released in the market, their sales would surely go through the roof.

 

Mark was ignorant—very—as he wasn't aware of the people that were targeting him and his project. Robin was trying to steal the code for the company he was working for. He walked towards the office of this Robin(the receptionist here was a little rebellious. Dark red—very vampy—lipstick, messy but sultry bun and a bit intimidating to talk with) but wasn't able to go to the upper floor. It seemed that there were no "Ian Robinson" working in the building. This led him back to the victim's office, as much as he didn't want to go back.

 

It seemed that he didn't even need to go back to the office. Sherlock felt something pricked his shoulders and seconds later his body was not his own anymore. He felt drowsy and his steps were slowing, knees weakening until it couldn't take his body weight and fell on the ground, his eyes following shortly.

 

This case had been interesting from the start, the disposing of the body on the street was carefully done, and there were some revelations on the way, so it was a marvel to him why he was in a dirty, old warehouse when he woke up his hands and feet restrained with some cable tie.

 

How deceiving of this case to be so interesting from the start and then failing him in the end.

 

Well since he was now a captive of Robin, he might as well finish this annoying case for once.

 

“What do you know?” A voice echoed through the vacant spacious room.

 

“You know, that’s not how you should start a conversation. It makes you a creep,” Sherlock casually answered.

 

“I’m not here for a conversation.”

 

“Then you shouldn’t be talking to me.”

 

“You-”

 

 Sherlock couldn’t help himself to smirk, his kidnapper was ticked off. He just lost this conversation, if this was a game at all.

 

“Just tell me what you know, and maybe I’ll be kind to you,” the kidnapper whispered on his right ear the same time Sherlock heard a gun clicking near his back.

 

 _Oh great. A gun,_ he thought and wished the room was well lighted so his kidnapper could see how he rolled his eyes.

“Wait, let me check what I know,” he hummed for a second and continued, “I know that you hired a private investigator to do a background check on someone named Mark Davis. I know that you are interested on something he’s currently working on and is planning to steal it.”

 

The kidnapper was starting to back his face off from Sherlock as he started talking from shock.

 

“And that you are not stealing it because you want the project and credit for yourself but actually want it because you were the one who coded the new upgrade on the latest ransomware. You want it so you can understand how he counters the new upgrade you made, giving you a chance to make a new update and counter what he made. And you actually hired someone to kill Cynthia because you thought she was about to sell you to the Met but she actually doesn’t. Really a shame to do that.” Sherlock was now the one who creeped his face near the kidnapper. “And how you love cats and you have three in your flat now?” he whispered, mimicking what Robin just did before.

 

Robinson’s eyes were wide in the end of Sherlock’s speech. He retreated a couple of steps away from Sherlock and started walking back and forth in front of Sherlock. He started mumbling with himself, his face palpable with panic, rage and whole other things. He suddenly flinched out of nowhere and trotted towards Sherlock raising the gun to him, his hand trembling tremendously.

 

Just before Robinson pulled the trigger a man tackled him onto the ground loosing grip of the gun. John immediately straddled the man and pulled Robinson’s hands behind his body fully pining him down. Then Lestrade and his men was surging towards them surrounding Robinson and Lestrade freeing Sherlock from his restraints. John handed Robinson to them and went to the detectives.

 

“Should do this more often, coming at the right time,” Sherlock said.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Sherlock went back to the DI's office, flopping his body to the first chair his eyes had seen. He quickly grabbed the lapels of his coat and hugged himself tighter, trying his best to curl into himself on the uncomfortable chair.

 

A man followed a couple of seconds later, tired but still went to take off his jacket and drape it on the back of the chair. He sat afterwards and slumped himself to the office desk beside him.

 

"It would really be lovely if you don't mess up the already messy table, thank you," the DI mumbled enough to be heard in the room, although he rested his head and shoulders to the table as well.

 

"Don't forbid us from something you'll do afterwards," the man answered and sighed the fatigue that obvious with his tone out.

 

"I own the office, John. I can do what I want," Lestrade retorted his voice muffled beneath all the papers above his head.

 

"And I am a friend of the owner of the office."

 

"And I was the one who ended the case. Can both of you stop babbling nonsense and just finish this... whatever it is needed? I am seriously looking forward to a shower. At my flat."

 

"You could go now-"

 

"Dinner is someth-" John cut in.

 

"And go back tomorrow for the statements? No. Just finish this," but Sherlock didn't let John finish.

 

"For the record, you don't write anything. I always do the writing," John raised his dominant hand in the air with its forefinger pointing towards the ceiling, making a point. Sherlock scowled and turned his back away from the two, if that was even possible in his position. “And dinner is something you also need, Sherlock,” he added.

 

After all the argument whether Sherlock and John would eat or not, John won. As if Sherlock wanted to miss this opportunity.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

They were walking on their way to the restaurant, still going down from the adrenaline rush they had. Sherlock was ecstatic from having John in his side, despite of the turn up of the case.

 

“Why did you have to go?” John asked.

 

Sherlock stopped walking and looked at John in confusion. “Because it is a case, John. I have to go.”

 

John turned around and sighed, “That’s now what I’m talking about, Sherlock. It’s about why did you go alone.”

 

“Who would I bring, Lestrade?”

 

“You could have called me! Or texted me!”

 

“Oh please, John. You can’t go out there now.”

 

John laughed at how ridiculous their conversation was.

 

“You were never with me in the first place,” he hissed. John flinched.

 

For the first time, Sherlock wanted to punch himself.

 

He could take it back, say that he didn’t mean to say that. But he couldn’t.

 

This was lingering in his mind for days now. John was just a coincidence. Probably the most beautiful, wonderful coincidence Sherlock ever had. Sherlock went to St. Barts and told Mike he needed a flatmate, John crossed paths with Mike and told he needed a flatmate. Sherlock knew Mike, John knew Sherlock. Then the rest was history.

 

But before that, Sherlock only had a skull to talk to. He had the whole flat to himself. He went to the crime scenes alone. He made tea only for one. No one claimed that red chair in the sitting room. No one was sleeping in the room upstairs.

 

And as much as he wanted to deny and ignore it, he had a life before this coincidence happened. And now he had to remember what was it like and what it felt like.

 

“Do you regret everything?” John breathed. His hands were curled into a fist, his posture was tense, his eyes were staring into the detective’s eyes.

 

Sherlock wanted to apologise and explain that he never regretted anything but fought it. He knew that once he started talking he wouldn’t be able to stop and things that shouldn’t be said would be spilled. Then when his resolve shattered, he couldn’t find his voice.

 

John’s stare faltered and averted his gaze from Sherlock. “Right,” he wasn’t even sure if he said that. “Right,” he turned around, took a few steps before turning back. “Then… the next time- you go out there, think of the people who care for you, even before we met. Because they do care,” he said and left Sherlock alone.

 

The two decided to go for Thai that night. John gave up and indulged his hunger. Sherlock had a few bites, played the food with his fork, ranted about how meretricious the case was, and had a few secret glimpses of John on the way. They had a lovely dinner.

 

That’s what’s supposed to happen. Well, it didn’t.

 

 _I’m such an idiot_ , Sherlock thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure if you are aware of this "ransomware" but it is a real thing. Based on Google, ransomware is "a type of malicious software designed to block access to a computer system until a sum of money is paid."  
> One of the most common things these nasty things do is that the ransomware encrypts the files located in the user's device, making every piece of them useless. If the user wants to retrieve the files, the user has to pay for the code that would decrypt the files. The thing is, the user is not sure if the code would actually work. The best thing to do is to reformat the device and mourn for the forever lost files(if there is no backup somewhere).  
>  
> 
> That's about it. If you have seen anything wrong, please let me know. Constructive criticism is also appreciated.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, that would really be something for me! I'd love to know too!
> 
> Thank you for reading, you're awesome.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter's here! I don't know how, but it's here.

The darkness brought out by the night was starting to seep through the horizon, the streets were busy and noisy with their own businesses yet still managed to make the peacefulness prominent above all. In a flat in Baker Street, however, there was a sound that came out of a violin, elegant as if it was played and practised for decades. It continued for a few minutes before it came to an abrupt halt and then was followed by a gasp.

 

"No. It was the cousin,” the detective gently placed his violin on his couch before reaching his phone located on the kitchen table. His fingers then started to tap the screen in an unbelievable speed, smiling as he pressed the send icon and threw his phone somewhere in the room. He walked towards the sofa to plop himself on it and draped his left arm on his face, hiding his eyes from the world.

 

Seven days had passed since the fight happened and he was in nowhere in the progress of how to apologise to John. He tried to compose the best text he could but every one of it was rejected and was left in the drafts by him in the process. It seemed that even though sentiment was overwhelming you and you thought that you could express and explain everything with ease, it wouldn’t always be like that. Lesson learned, too much sentiment could lead to system overload and system overload could lead to system hang or system error.

 

He had seven days and with nothing to do but to read some cold cases that could only take him less than hour to solve, he would always find himself thinking about John. That wasn’t a surprise to him though, ever since the doctor entered that laboratory a few years ago, his daily routine of what to spend his thought with dramatically changed. Yes, it all just started to sate the curiosity that had been consuming him, to discover why was the doctor like that, to how wonderful it was to hear the praises he got from John, how he was not afraid to genuinely show what he was feeling, and how was the tea better when John was the one who made it.

 

He started thinking of that first night they had spent together, both high on adrenaline, giggling on a crime scene, because who giggle on a crime scene? Every experience he had with John was so meticulously placed in a room ( _a wing_ , he thought) in his mind palace, all dedicated for the doctor. Even the scene he witnessed when he saw John talking to a kid in the clinic seemed to be a file given with the highest priority. Well, every file that had John on it always had the highest priority.

 

Walking through the hallways of the palace, he could see how sorted and how massive his thoughts about John was. The shelves in the rooms were clean, free from dust, and it was clearly obvious how it was frequently accessed. His eyes wandered for a little bit more when his whole body suddenly froze and his gaze stopped on the sight in front of him.

 

It was one of the rooms he unofficially officially declared as useless but still kept it for some reason.

 

It was the room where all the lonely things were found. The room where all the things without John were found.

 

He tiptoed towards the room as if he was approaching a wild beast and stopped in front, releasing the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He took all of the details the door had: obviously locked from the inside, unused, dust evident on the surface and the knob. He tried to recall where he placed the key for the door was, only to remember that he placed it on the right corner table of the room in front of him. He couldn’t open this door then.

 

Who was he kidding, he could pick locks.

 

_Am I running away?_

 

He was. He knew he was running away from the fact that he had the chance to make everything  better with John, that he still had enough grip to hold on to this somehow _happy and content_ situation he had with John but he still managed to make it all to waste. And now he had to face the consequences of that. He just had to pick the lock, open the door and—

 

_What was that noise?_

 

He started to hear noises outside his palace and it was starting to bother him. He sighed (out of irritation or relief, he didn’t know) and went out of his palace only to be welcomed by the noise again. He cautiously looked around the room, the stairway to look but no one was around.

 

Then there was the noise again. It took him a couple of seconds to process what was happening.

 

 _Bloody transport._ It was his stomach. When was the last time he ate?

 

He stood up while grumbling, went towards the kitchen, put the kettle on and hoped that there was something, anything he could find in the cupboards or in the refrigerator, only to find spoilt milk and cupboards full of dust.

 

He didn’t like though, but he had to get out. His body was starting to complain and he could feel it, he was light-headed, strength almost nonexistent, and a bloody grumbling stomach.

 

Or maybe he could just get takeaway and have Mrs. Hudson make him tea.

 

Yes. That would work. Really well actually.

 

With the decision made, papers started flying everywhere because he had to find the mobile he just threw a couple of hours (minutes?) ago. And then it was like routine: remembering the restaurant he used to have takeaway, ordering the dishes. But then he stopped in the middle because he was ordering too much for one person.

 

_Right. John’s not here._

The moment he was done ordering, Mrs. Hudson popped out in the hallway, tea with her hands. Just in time.

 

“I heard you moving downstairs. I thought you might want a cuppa,” Mrs. Hudson started as she placed the tray on the sitting room table.

 

Sherlock didn’t answer but reached out for the mug in front of him and went to sit in his couch.

 

Mrs. Hudson’s tea wasn’t bad. It was one of the most pleasant teas he had for a long time. It’s just… it wasn’t John’s.

 

Again. His mind was on John, John Watson and John Hamish Watson. And all it took was a cup of tea to lead himself into this topic again. How was it possible that every second and almost everything of his life can be associated to the doctor? Well, he’s now experiencing it, wasn’t he?

 

His mind was now shifting gears again, absentmindedly sipping his tea when the doorbell rang. The takeaway was here which reminded how he was hungry just a couple of minutes ago. 

 

Mrs. Hudson wasn't around anymore, he noticed. He went down the flat still with the mug in his hand when he opened the door.

 

Takeaway wasn’t here.

 

In front of him had a blonde hair.

 

It was a woman though.

 

“Do you mind if I come in?”

 

Sherlock, finding out that his voice was unexpectedly missing closed the mouth that was before agape and stepped back a little to give space and let his unexpected guest in.

 

“Mary,” he whispered a couple of seconds, his voice horse.

 

Mary smiled as she let herself up to the flat. Sherlock followed to find her sitting in the sofa, her hands on her lap as if she was trying to be comfortable. She should be, shouldn’t she? She spent an awful lot of time here when they were planning the… _event_.

 

Mary was… something. From the moment they met, Sherlock had this odd feeling about this woman in front of her. First, she managed well when Sherlock showed up. It was never a problem for her when Sherlock suddenly went back. In fact, he knew she was fond of him. She was smart, beautiful, charming. She was different, but perhaps that’s why John fell in love with her. She could immediately understand what was wrong in a moment. She could read emotions very well and keep up with it. In summary, she could be everything Sherlock could and couldn’t be.

 

The thought itself was painful that Sherlock had to tear his gaze away from her. He had to do something to give him distance. He thought of making tea, the kettle was there but he knew there was nothing to make. He could pretend that he was doing an experiment but his kitchen table was screaming ‘no experiments conducting today’. He could get his violin and play but he was pretty sure that his right hand would tremble and would just produce noise instead of music.

 

So he settled for his couch. That was the best that he could do.

 

It was already awkward the moment she was here. It was more awkward though, to just sit there and do nothing but to just listen to each other’s breaths.

 

Thankfully, Mary decided to break the bubble the moment Sherlock was starting to fidget.

 

“Um. Sherlock.”

 

He turned his head to look at her.

 

“I should just get to the point, shouldn’t I?” Mary offered a shy smile.

 

“Please,” Sherlock answered.

 

Mary took a deep breath, nod her head with determination and looked at him. “Please stay away from John.”

 

Sherlock blinked and blinked.

 

“Ever since you had that fight a week ago, he hasn’t been himself. He was starting to get back to where he was before… before I met him. It took him months to get himself together and I don’t want to see him like that. He has a family to think of and I can't let him take the fall again. John's decision is not just John's decision anymore, it's now a ‘John and his family's decision.’

 

“I know that he wouldn’t like it if I tell him to stay away from you, that he’d likely ignore what I would say and still try to get back to you and solve cases with you, that’s why I came directly to you to make you understand that… you’re not helping him anymore.”  
  
Mary stood up. Sherlock remain seated.

 

“Please. Think about this,” she said her final words and left.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was now lying on his bed wearing his grey t-shirt, pyjamas and dressing gown. His limbs were stretched out, because somehow it helps him to think.

 

He replayed what Mary said on and on and the more he tried to understand it, the more he was getting to understand why Mary did it.

 

That didn’t mean that he had to like it and to like the one who said it.

 

And now he was finally admitting that he was confused because he could just approach John, say a piece of words apology that was picked and well woven together, and they could just be back to where they were before. Then Mary’s words would be for nothing.

 

Or he could continue to move on with his life with the hopes of forgetting all this sentiment and feelings he had for John. It would hurt, he knew, he was already hurting now. But if he did move on, then the pain would be worth it.

 

Or he could try to sleep now and try to think about it tomorrow, when his logic would be back.

 

 _Sleep, yes,_ he thought.

 

He tried to sleep only to fail.

 

His eyes slowly opened and pulled his mobile in front of his face. He tapped on it for a few moments before he let his right hand carelessly on his side. He didn’t bother to lock the screen of the mobile.

 

_To: John Watson_

_Messages:_

_[Drafts – 03:19 AM] I'm sorry. I have no right to say those to you. SH_

_[Drafts – 12:43 AM] John. I'm sorry SH_

_[Drafts – 07:16 AM] There's a case. Could be dangerous. SH._

_[Drafts – 07:01 PM] Mary came to Baker Street. She told me to leave you. SH_

_[Drafts – 01:28 AM] Why can't I let you go? SH_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. Right. A new character is out again. I really don't know how I ended up with this, actually. I had a pretty much different idea of how she was gonna be like in here, but then, it just happened. I can't help it, it was like it typed itself into words. And I am kind of nervous because... things. So please let me know what are your thoughts about this, because it will help a lot. Very.
> 
> That's about it. If you have seen anything wrong, please let me know. Constructive criticism is also appreciated.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, that would really be something for me! I'd love to know too!
> 
> Thank you for reading, you're awesome.


End file.
